


rough sketches

by More_night



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: #Jeames on Main, Domestic, Drawing, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 07:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/More_night/pseuds/More_night
Summary: wherein James draws Francis





	1. march 1847, or friendship glimpsed and renounced

* * *

It never ceases to amaze Francis Crozier what proportion of his life is dedicated to waiting. He has waited on half-pay, walking the streets of London, Florence, France, Portsmouth, awaiting ships, commissions; he has waited for a command of his own, never to obtain it; he has waited, of course--the longest wait of all--for Sophia, waiting to be noticed after a glance exchanged over tea at the Franklins in Hobart Town, waiting then to be addressed, discovered and found, his heart bursting; and afterwards, he has waited for her answer. It is only, he should suppose, a droplet more in an ocean of irony that he now spends his days awaiting spring; leads; a thaw, Lord Saviour let there be a thaw. When he has drunk his way through half a bottle, which he now does more often than not, his mind shifts in the ways he has come to expect and desire: he starts calling the waiting by the name of hope or longing. Come morning, it is always gone and Francis wakes to the same cold misery.

Naturally, as things befit him, he waits for dinner to end. _Erebus_ 's wardroom is quite full tonight, and a cheerful humor has taken possession of the gathered officers. Dr. MacDonald has spoken of his whaling days; Sir John has recounted some of his travels to the prisons of Van Diemen's Land--probably all he can bear to speak of from the days of his decline, Francis thinks; and Fitzjames, of course, has talked like the sound of his own voice is breath and water to those around him, Francis can't quite recall what about.

When Sir John signals the closing of festivities ("Gentlemen, old men like myself should retire now to berth and prayer"), Francis springs to his feet.

"Oh, Francis," Sir John says. "Do not go just yet. There is something I must share with you." There is a glint to Sir John's eyes that tells Francis this is no naval matter; not that it could be, since they have discussed ice reports, carpentry and magnetic observations right until their plates were brought to the table.

Francis glimpses back at his glass, emptied of port wine. "Certainly, Sir John. Of what matters?"

The wardroom has been mostly vacated by now. Only Fitzjames lingers; whether it is to accompany Sir John on their way aft or to witness the torture of a fellow officer, Francis cannot tell.

Sir John turns a beaming face towards Fitzjames. "I have recently discovered that Commander Fitzjames is not only a distinguished naval officer, but also a talented artist."

"Is he?" 

Francis would have expected James to seize the praise he evidently craves. Instead, the young Commander ducks his head. "Sir John, please," he tries to extricate himself from what Francis now discerns looming.

Sir John lifts a preaching finger. "Modesty is indeed a Christian virtue, but one which is best not abused, James. Come, Francis."

Francis darts a quizzical look at James, who ostensibly does not meet his eyes. Then he follows Sir John towards the officers' cabins. 

They stop at James's Second cabin. James obediently slides the door open for Sir John to reach inside and retrieve a sheet of unlined paper from James's writing desk. He exhibits it to Francis in the corridor, under the golden light of the mounted lamp. Francis casts a look at James again: the younger man has stepped back, his teeth worry the inside of his cheek. Sir John, by contrast, looks positively alight with fatherly pride; and, for a moment, through the haze of port wine, Francis glimpses some of what he might have thought of as James Fitzjames's hardships, did he not dislike him, his social ease and his heroic fortune so.

The sheet of paper Sir John holds before Francis is a sketch, ink and pencil. Because, manifestly, James Fitzjames is one of these naval officers for whom the sea is only one more opportunity of engaging in all possible forms of gentlemanly and artistic pursuits. Even as he thinks this, Francis eyes James once more. Crimson red has flushed his cheeks; he clearly appears to wish he were anywhere else on sea or Earth than in these particular whereabouts. 

Even through what is developing to be a singularly bad temper, Francis can tell that it is an excellent rendering. It pictures Terror's stern and Francis must hypothesize it has been done from memory since he cannot recall having ever witnessed Fitzjames pen and pad in hand. The lines are sure and neat; ink has supplemented pencil for the darker gunwales and cables. On the quarterdeck stand Sir John Franklin and himself; they observe something on the distant land of ice blocks; Sir John holds the spyglass to his eye, his expression has an odd tint of enthusiasm, bordering on boyishness. Francis is quite otherwise; his hands are clasped behind his back and his gaze is focused elsewhere, downwards at the ice immediately holding the ship (the sketch renders it rather dramatically like fangs closing on prey). Francis does not know how exactly Fitzjames has managed this, but the dispiritedness on Francis's features is as transparent as it would be should Francis encounter his reflection in a mirror.

Francis clenches his teeth. "I don't know what to say." A glance at James again, whose eyes carry forth a plea for mercy. "It's very good, James," Francis manages at last. "Good to know that, for some of us, the hours of wait in the ice are well spent."

James plucks the drawing from Francis's hands as efficiently as he can, putting an end to the display of his talents. "Thank you, Francis," he says, his tone as unembellished as Francis has ever heard it.

The sketch of himself and Sir John does not leave his mind during Francis's walk back to _Terror_. He returns to his nightly ship, alone, the Lieutenants and masters having preceded him during his conference with Sir John and Fitzjames. The moon is high now, and full and white, and so are the mock moons around it; the plains of ice around the ships echo the sound of wind and, deeper, from below, the sounds of chunks of ice adding to the pack; the noise is haunting, like the one of a low and constant grinding.

In the great cabin, Jopson takes Francis's coat off his shoulders. "Something the matter, sir?"

Francis shakes his head and sends Jopson to bed after his steward has insisted on making him a cup of tea. In the dark cabin, Francis drinks half of the cup in two gulps, then mixes whiskey with the rest.

He settles on his bunk and lets his head rest against the solid wood of the ship. He has had portraits done before; not as frequently as some other officers, certainly, but mates and fellow seamen did that on drunken nights, with charcoal on used logbooks, or pencil on journals; and there is the portrait drawn from the photographic machinery on a steelplate, done at Greenhithe--but never, none of these rare occurrences had made him feel so frightfully bare. Again, his thoughts wander; again, he regrets coming here. Again, he wishes he could vanish, become invisible, dive somewhere beyond all fathomable depths where no one could ever seek him. He has never wanted eyes on him so little as he does those of James Fitzjames, no matter how truthful the man's gaze. Whiskey stews the thought in his mind: what should it mean that one who repells him so knows him so well? Sleep is an ocean of that thought and that thought alone, shoving him about as he cannot escape the confines of his bunk.

Sir John excuses himself from their next command meeting on account of a chest affliction which Dr. Stanley has suggested he nurse on his own ship. As the order of command dictates, _Erebus_ 's officers come to _Terror_ , not that there is much to consider about their ever-unchanging situation; it is too early in the spring to sight leads; most of their talk has to do with the morale of the men, the results of their scientific observations and the state of their provisions.

Morning is young enough that Francis has had only two fingers of whiskey since waking. Perhaps this explains why, as the officers conclude their business, he asks Fitzjames for a word.

"Of course, Francis," James says, casually remote. To his fellow Erebites: "Dundy, lead our men back. I'll join you later."

Francis shuts the door behind the departing officers. They have not spoken since Sir John has shown Francis James's pencil sketch; not that it would change the tone of their unfrequent exchanges; yet, during the meeting which has just concluded, Francis has found James less agonistic than on previous occasions. It has not made the subject of his inquiry easier on his mind; of all things troubling Francis the prospect of having Fitzjames will them into an assumed friendship is by far the worst.

But Fitzjames, as in all things and even on Francis's own ship, precedes him. "I had no intention of you ever seeing that pencil picture, Francis. Nor Sir John, for that matter," he says. "He walked in on me as I was finishing it." It rattles Francis further how effortlessly Fitzjames has anticipated the topic of their conversation; and perhaps as well does he perceive how much the sketch has had Francis fretting. "And you should know that I would have stopped Sir John from either witnessing it, or displaying it to you--had it been in my power."

Francis nods. The only comfort is to know the event has stayed with James just as much as it has with Francis. Francis Crozier is not good with words, but at times though, he can be candid, and perhaps the current situation would benefit from that. "Do I really look so lorn?"

James has a small start and gives his hat a turn in his hands. He studies Francis for a moment, not unlike an opponent would. "Truth be told?"

"As if anything else would do."

"I sketched you from recollection, Francis. This may well be the work of my own notions," he says. Something in his bearing has Francis grow alert. The cause of his disliking Fitzjames has initially been that he were in the presence of an empty vessel, a parade of an officer with naught inside but aspirations to promotion and a vague, dreamy picture of adventure. There is another worry to have, however: What if Fitzjames is in truth not as empty as he lets on? What then? But that question must remain unanswered in the face of what Fitzjames says next: "You don't appear nearly so forlorn now, Francis."

"Really?" he retorts. "And how do I look? Tell me, James." The younger officer is taken aback by Francis's harshness. He frowns disbelivingly. "Sir John's not here," Francis taunts. "Speak your mind."

James Fitzjames is someone who will accept a challenge, even one issued so crudely; and he does. Francis has brought them here; he knows it and awaits a witty, clever barb alright. Still he does not expect what comes. He would have thought a man like James would use flourish. But it is plainness that he obtains. "You have the looks of a man who ignores which thing he contemns most: us or himself."

Francis gives a bitter chuckle instead of a reply. His only desires now are to never have attempted this conversation and to reach for the decanter behind him; he makes certain that this is plain in his expression alone.

The _Erebus_ Captain bears Francis's disdain for a time. When he speaks, his voice is colder than the ice around them. "Anyhow. I owe you an apology. I should have requested permission to picture you. It was impolite of me."

"We're beyond polite, aren't we?"

Clicking his tongue, James slips on his hat over his welsh wig. "My apologies are sincere, Francis. Take them or leave them. That choice is your own."

Once alone again, Francis is at liberty to pour himself a whiskey; and a second; and a third. Bringing it to his lips is a bitter affair: he does not want to drink, but rather to drive his fist through anything that would resist his hand. He curses himself, again, for thinking he could be sincere. That night, he drinks enough to make sure he does not feel the slip into an ocean of dust 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates on the 27th (evening eastern time) because at #jeames on main we're cool like that


	2. february 1848, or love sudden and unbidden

* * *

In the hold of HMS _Erebus_ , James Fitzjames brings the hammer down once more onto the wedge. Wood groans against wood, but the sound of it is lost in the weeping of the ship's timbers being crushed in the ice. Pack ice destroys at a tranquil pace, squashing _Erebus_ like it would a ripe fruit. There is nothing to say, now, that it doesn't do the same to men, pressing them until their spirit spills out.

Amid the darkness that only his lantern lightens, suddenly a sliver of day appears behind him.

It's Dundy, pulling open the hatch. "Fitz," he calls. "Captain Crozier's here to speak with you."

James hammers the wedge a last time; it squeals into place. As he sets the tool down, a sudden doubt crosses his mind: "It's not yet time for the officers' meeting, is it?" His memory has grown capricious; it is full of holes now, like the wool they wear; like _Erebus_. He had not mentioned it ever to Dr Stanley--to what purpose? For he would only be told what he already knew--and then, Dr Stanley...

But Henry gives a quick shake of his head, reassuring James that he has not in fact spent the better part of the night and the entire morning attempting to plug the five new leaks.

Then the Lieutenant steps out of the way, nods to the other figure looming at the hatch, and Francis comes down. When he reaches the bottom of the ladder, he lifts a hand to his forehead as his eyes search the darkness. With the hatch closed above Francis, the hold is dark again save for the few yards around the lantern placed on a crate by James's side. "Here, Francis," James says, advancing through the foot of freezing water towards the deck the men have elevated at the bottom of the steps.

"James," Francis greets him.

It has been nearly six weeks now since Francis's illness and James should have gotten used to the new man who had come out of the ordeal. It is somewhat difficult--but perhaps only because this new man is still the same man. Same voice, same visage, same bearing. Only all has changed: the tone, the expression, the posture.

Francis eyes him from head to toe: James understands. He knows what an unbecoming sight he must be. He wears his outdoor breeches and boots to protect his legs from the cold--he wears two layers of woolen socks, but still he does not feel his toes; in truth, nothing up to the ankle--but has removed his coat and works in his shirt and sweater, the sleeves rolled up on his arms as far as they'll go, which makes the gloves he wears seem more ridiculous. His hair sticks to his scalp with what may be sweat or blood--everytime James wipes his brow, he peers at the back of his hand to see which one it is.

Francis does not inquire why James is here alone, with no other seaman to help him, and James is grateful. There are no words between officers of the British Royal Navy that would express his thoughts. He has scribbled some in his journal for William and Elizabeth ( _Whenever I close my eyes, be it to sleep or to ward off the sunlight, which is so rare here, I see the faces of the men who died. They appear costumed and readied for the fete, but for their faces which are cracked and black and burned..._ ). Then he has inked over them meticulously. He does not dare burden his friends with such nightmares. And seeing the words written make it all the more plain that he may well have lost his mind.

The silence grows long and James feels the need to fill it with a report. "We have counted five new leaks so far. In at least one case, Mr Wilson thinks the copper plating has given way entirely. The other four seem less critical. I have assigned two watches per day to man the pumps, but the mechanism is impaired in this cold."

"Yes, the grease freezes." Francis clears his throat, "Speaking of our carpenters..."

"What of them?"

"I have started to gather the modifications required for our boats. If we are to prepare them for river-sailing."

"From George Back's volume?"

Francis nods. "There are not much--the bottom should be flattened out, the gunwales lowered, and they should be rigged. But, even though I have boundless faith in the ability of Mr Weekes, Mr Honey and Mr Wilson to properly cut and joint wood, as it so appears they cannot read a word of English."

"Perhaps they could be provided with a chart, or a visual aid of some kind..."

"Yes." Francis slips out of his coat a folded paper, torn from a logbook by the looks of it. He exhibits it to James. "This is Edward's attempt." The lines are visibly drawn by a shaking hand, and one which is not accustomed to drawing too. It resembles a boat indeed. But it certainly does not provide any indication of shape or cut of wood. "And this is mine," Francis points at another pinnace-shaped illustration: it looks like an oddly-shaped nose. "You can say it," Francis confirms, a wrinkle of amusement to his eyes--Lord, this new man. "I am no competition with you in matters of talents for the arts."

James huffs a laugh. What had happened to such a man to hide this candor from the world? "Have you Back's account with you?" James asks, when both their smiles have faded.

Francis pads his coat pocket with a nod. "Come up," Francis insists. "You can use a moment's rest, I am certain."

Nodding absently, James hopes he has successfully masked the extent of his exhaustion. Meanwhile, Francis tries not to wear the expression of one who knows exactly how exhausted James is. "Yes. Very well."

In the great cabin, after James has emerged dressed anew and having warmed his feet as best he could, which is little, Francis and him go over Back's indications. All the while, Francis must notice how James winces in the light. His gaze lingers, but makes no note of it. As he begins to draw, James is reminded of another conversation he and Francis had in this very cabin, mere weeks before: _You were right_ , Francis had said. _I was a horrible First_. James had replied, _This is behind us, Francis_.

Francis's mind seems to wander as he follows James's hand on the paper, and it must stop on the other instance on which James's artistic talents had come to the fore. "Do you recall your depiction of myself and Sir John--the one you made last Spring?"

 _Almost a full year ago now, yes. If only I had known then what was to come_ , James thinks. _How we scorned each other_. The horrors it took to repeal these bleak sentiments. "I do."

Mr Bridgens brings in tea. Francis takes a sip and appears to collect his thoughts. "The clarity of your view struck me. Your portrayed an embittered man. And I was. I thought if I could hide it from myself, I could hide it from others as well."

"You hated that picture," James remarks.

"I hated many things," Francis agrees. "But not the portrait, nor its author."

James's hand stills and he lifts his eyes from his work to study Francis. The man still appears occupied with his tea. But his gaze meets James's briefly, soundly. The younger Captain feels a distinct warmth come over his cheeks in the cool room. If he has any luck in this world, the blush will be hidden beneath the red his efforts in the hold have brought to his face there. Nonetheless, he breaks their gaze, although he cannot refrain from smiling. "If it's any comfort, you no longer appear embittered now," he says.

Francis looks down into his cup of tea most attentively again. "I'm happy to know it."

Francis has returned to _Terror_ with James's inked drawing of the changes necessary for the pinnaces and cutters, as well as a promise that James takes the next hours of his day to rest before their command meeting of the afternoon. James has conceded--but now he lies in his berth, lost in the maze of sloshing thoughts that scurvy has given him for sleep. The pride he took not so long ago in gaining a night's rest in only a few hours is lost now to his longing for mere minutes of peace and darkness.

He rises when his joints ache too much to make it bearable to stay still in an imitation of slumber. He finds the 1847 sketch of Francis folded in between the pages of the Tennyson volume where he had left it. No, Francis is no longer that man, surely.

Sitting down at the writing table, he starts another sketch, not overly thinking of the motions of his hand and fingers. He draws Francis as he saw him this morning, looking at James, teacup in hand, the cabin shrouded in darkness behind him. The face has changed, certainly; it was closed before, it is open now--the brow is different, no longer wearing a frown of perpetual worry, although serenity is an odd thing for Francis to have now--the eyes have changed--the mouth also...--and the lips...

James stops.

 _Lord, how could I have been so blind_ , he asks himself. And then he must correct himself: the Lord's name should certainly be kept out of these matters.

Could it be scurvy? It should be possible, he thinks. After all, if the dark months alone bring such stress to their minds, and with illness eating the rest of their strength, could it--

On impulse, he reaches for the lamp and bares the flame: this drawing would be better burned. But he stops. His hand shakes. He feels the litheness of his frame in each one of his limbs. He closes his eyes and sits back. To an outside observer, the only sign in his outer demeanor of his love for Francis washing over him would have been his parted lips and rasp breathing. It had been years, of course, and he is no longer as young a man as he was; yet, with his mind's defenses weakened by disease, the emotion is a tempest.

The epiphany leaves an afterglow in its wake: sitting down for the command meeting of that afternoon, Henry tells him what good some sleep has done him. James cannot tell him that he got no rest at all. And still, he feels like another man.

He should have noted the signs earlier, perhaps. How he can tell Francis's pace from the other officers' as the Terrors make their way aft. The warmth that flutters in his chest when Francis touches his hand to James's shoulder as a greeting. How he wants Francis's gaze to linger on him.

The need to keep secrets has always been compensated, to him, by the leaving behind of innocent signs. In his youth, he noted his fleeting encounters with other men with an X in his journal. The only thing he keeps from today's revelation is his drawing, which he could not bring himself to destroy, as he should. He has not tucked it away in the Tennyson volume--he fears it too hazardous: the picture is very plain, but it has, to him, visibly been penciled by someone in the grips of love--anyone might happen on it in his cabin. No, he has kept it in his personal journal, the one he keeps in a notebook in his breast pocket.

Later, he will be heavy-hearted about it. At the irony of finding love here, so biting it nearly feels like punishment for his ways. At the infeasibility of contact or declaration.

But not now. Not as Francis sits at his place at the table, basked in the last of that day's hour of sunlight, his voice clear and soft both.

God or Hell--not now.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and yes i'm pretty sure royal navy carpenters can do very well with people just telling them what to do and that they don't need plans, even if they were illiterate--but then where would my plot be


	3. august 1848, or love and euphoria and cruelty

* * *

"Eighty-three, Francis!" Thomas Blanky laughs raucously.

Fort Resolution is a narrow spit of rock lost among hillocks of forest. It soothes the soul to see pines and birch trees again, after so long a time spent in the Barrens. But Francis Crozier will not yet have his soul soothed it seems--or at least not his mind. The days following their arrival at the fort he spends setting up tents with the handful of his men who can still stand. They are helped by the two sole current inhabitants: two Hudson Bay Company men in deerskin and canoes, one named Stewart, the other Anderson.

In the largest tent, they put the ill. Salmon and trout have not warded off scurvy, only slowing it down. But one of the most pressing cares is Thomas, whose leg had blackened along the way. One of the resident Company men seeks a healer from a nearby hunting camp of Copper Indians. To have the deed done, lacking spirits, they have plied Thomas with some kind of tea and topped it off with laudanum from the fort's medicine chest.

And this is why Francis Crozier sits by Thomas Blanky, who is laughing heartily, like there has never been on this Earth more comic matter than their adventures.

"Eighty bloody three!" Thomas mutters, with tears in his eyes.

"I stopped counting at sixty," Francis mutters back.

"If we'd known..."--a chuckle--"If you'd told us Francis that this bloody river of yours had eighty-three portages..."

"The men would have rioted--on the spot!" Francis shoots back, which sends Thomas in another fit of laughter.

"I don't want to see another one of these damn boats of yours the rest of me life," Thomas declares then.

And Francis shares the sentiment, if not the hilarity--although seeing Thomas with a smile is good. 

Over Thomas's bed, he peers at the farthest corner of the sickbay tent.

"Well, I'll miss the leg," Thomas says. Francis stops him from padding his left thigh further. The laudanum keeps Thomas from feeling the pain, but what remains of his limb bleeds still into the bandages.

"These dressings will need changing again."

"Stewart can do it. Good lad he seems. Or Mr Bridgens."

Francis glances at the bed where John Bridgens sits to help Henry Peglar with a drink of water. His eyes drift, then, to the bed in the corner again...

"Francis."

"Hm?"

"You know what? I've seen enough of your snuffy face," Thomas jests. "Go see to him now."

"He's sleeping."

"So get some sleep yourself then!" Francis shakes his head-- "Or what? He won't pass if you close your eyes for an instant," Blanky says.

Francis grits his teeth, thinking _What if he does?_

The compromise Francis negotiates with Thomas is to go sit by James while James sleeps.

Scurvy had done a slow but relentless work on James Fitzjames: he has lost three toes on his right foot, several teeth and now wears his left arm in a sling... But the most worrying wound was the bullet hole to his chest. It had become infected, time and again, as they walked. Now, Francis could only hope that the rest and food they had found here would help James heal. He had rarely hoped for something so keenly. Perhaps he never had.

The Native healer and Mr Bridgens had washed the dust and dirt of travel off James's skin. He now sleeps in clean clothes, with the blankets drawn tightly about himself even though fire burns high in the nearby stove. Francis touches the back of his fingertips to James's brow. It is still warm to the touch.

James mumbles in his fevered slumber.

"Shh," Francis hushes.

James stiffens briefly on the mattress, then returns to sleep. Francis leans back then and, closing his eyes, considers that there might be some truth to Thomas's advice...

Francis must have slept for a moment or two, for he is startled awake by a nearby noise. All that is to be heard around him are the noises of the men's silent breathing as they sleep on their sick beds. There are no whimpers. Even the despair seems to have left them be. The stove rumbles quietly.

At his feet, Francis finds the culprit which has woken him. It is the battered plain canvas pouch containing James's belongings. It has fallen down from the crate it was sitting on, likely when Francis stretched a leg in his sleep.

He bends down to gather James's things: a watch, not wound in countless days; his spyglass; a bloodied undershirt; a pair of flimsy goggles against snowblindness--and a black, leather-bound journal. It is not one of their logbooks--they have carried those in a ridiculously heavy steel chest all along Back's Fish River. Its binding is precarious. Some documents slip out and into his hands even as Francis tries to hold the pages shut. There are a handful of letters, closed and addressed, but never sent.

And then Francis sees it.

The sketch of him and Sir John on _Terror_ 's quarterdeck.

It has become worn by the travel. But it is still as Francis remembers it. He smiles at the recollection. More broadly in the confidence of solitude then he would were James awake to see him.

There is another drawing. It is Francis also. Alone, this time, holding a cup of tea, staring up at the artist. Francis cannot recall having posed for James to do this: he hasn't. He does recall, however, the moment captured. James had been sketching the plans to modify their boats for the journey. Francis had mentioned the first sketch and admitted how, even so early in their voyage, he did not hate James Fitzjames.

The more Francis looks at the second drawing, the more it becomes obvious to him what tenderness there must have been to guide the hand holding the pencil. What delicacy there is in the result. Even if the lines are rough, Francis's features stand out clearly. His eyes, his jaw, his mouth.

Francis did not know he looked so sightly.

But then any one would--if drawn by such a...

Such a loving hand. Oh.

The brush of skin on canvas startles him.

He looks up--it's nothing. James has only shifted in his sleep.

When Mr Bridgens comes by to tend to James's dressings, Francis closes the journal. 

"You want to know something funny?" Blanky says.

"Hm," says Francis.

"I think about the creature sometimes. I wonder what happened to it."

"Hm."

"It was lurching last time we saw it. Might have been wounded. Might have died by now. It's one of the sad things with this here voyage. We won't know what it was. And we won't tell anyone about it."

"Hm."

"If it had died anywhere near us, now that'd have helped. But then I don't know if we could have eaten it. I mean--it's eaten so many of us. Could the men have..."

"Hm."

"You know what, Francis? When you and the rest of the men will leave, I think I'll stay behind. Open me some shop here. Sell Bibles to the Eskimos. Teach them their letters. I'll write a note you can give Esther. Obviously, I'll have to marry a Native."

"Hm."  
  
"Francis. _Francis_."

Francis starts.

Blanky claps his shoulder. "What's with you? We're safe--we're here. I'm talking nonsence--selling Bibles for God's sakes--and you look like you're out there on the ice..."

Francis tries inhaling from his pipe--only to find that the fire has gone out. He straightens. "Yes. Yes, we're here. I'm here." He slips his pipe from his mouth. "Sorry, Thomas. My mind was elsewhere." An instant is what it takes him to return to where they currently are. The sickbay section of the newly-built house of Fort Resolution. The men have built thick walls with granite slabs dug out from the shores; it was named Resolute House. Fires and stoves give off warmth for them all. Thomas Blanky's leg has started healing. They have all started healing.

Even James.

As he thinks of James, his eyes are unthinkingly drawn to him. His mattress is in the corner. James sits on it, playing cards with Le Vesconte. From the exultant expression of his face, he is winning. As ever, the mere sight of James's happiness, even the lightest and most trivial, makes his heartbeat loud to his ears.

Francis reaches in the stove for a flame to keep his tobacco alight. He does not miss the shift in Blanky's attention as it goes from Francis to James and then from James to Francis.

"Hm. Elsewhere," Thomas mutters.

If Blanky does not drop it, Francis will have to invent some fancy to fool him with. Thomas won't be fooled, of course, but hopefully, he will know from Francis's attempt that he should refrain his inquiries.

If he does inquire, Francis has no idea what he would tell him. He has no concept of what he has lately been thinking, as if he had lost the track of the progress of his own mind somewhere on the shale of King William Island. He has wished he had never seen James's etched portrait of him, but this wish has the shape and taste of self-deception--Francis knows it well. He has also wished he had seen the etching much earlier. And this wish differs: it has a ring of unburied truth to it--yet it leaves Francis clueless and ruminating as to what to do.

There is not a doubt in his mind that James loves him as a lover would. It is a surprise--insofar as it is after all punishable by death. It has always escaped Francis exactly why, even if to every man he has ever met it seemed unequivocally dirty. If it is such a surprise then, why does it not bother Francis at all?

A course of action at least is clear. All he has to do is tell James that he treasures his friendship, but that these are not his ways. But there it is again--the sharp bite of self-deception. Is this the sole reason then why he has not said these words in the five weeks past? Because he hesitates? Would that be the reason why he has hardly managed to say a single word to James at all, in fact, these past weeks? This takes him again to the source of his hesitation--and there opens an unknown darkness. If only it weren't so warm...

" _Francis_."

"Hm?" he says, still lost in thoughts.

"If you don't tell me what's bothering you, maybe you should tell him."

Francis sighs.

He was certain James was still abed. Yet there he is, washing by the shore.

Dawn is reflected on the calm waters of Great Slave Lake. James is finishing his morning ablutions. Francis is coming to clean himself as well. He stops in his tracks when he sees him. James has rolled his flannel drawers up to his knees. He drags a cloth dripping with water from his neck to his shoulder. His hair sticks to his scalp, curling where it is dampened.

The wounds perhaps are what should have got Francis's attention. The mustket ball wound, Francis can clearly see when James raises his hand to his shoulder again. It has mended. It is still an ugly, dark red bite in the center of a purple bruise. James's left arm has suffered also. It hangs weakly at his side.

Instead of the wounds, Francis's gaze is drawn to James's face. It is a privilege to observe it unseen. James's eyes are closed. He does not quite face Francis. Like this, James looks older than when he narrates exploits and jibes for an audience. His brow is furrowed, his chin is dark with unshaven beard.

It cannot last, naturally.

After washing his face, James opens his eyes and sees him. "Good morning, Francis."

Francis, in his undershirt, on his naked feet on the freezing shingle of the shore, with a washcloth held loosely in his fingers, swallows. "James."

The speed at which James composes his expression is striking. Less time than it would have taken fire to light up a match. "I'll merely be a moment and leave you the spot."

Francis nods, lips sealed. In the past days, he has admitted to himself, in the contemplative silence command affords him still, that his uncertainty of the past weeks had begun to coalesce into another shape. 

He settles down on a rock. Fidgets while he avoids looking at James rinsing his hair. At the way his drawers hang from his hips. At the goosebumps raised on the flesh of his arms, so clear Francis can see them from where he sits. Except he is not looking, of course.

James dries himself with linens. The mask has returned over his features. It is there even though Francis should not be observing him, even though no one should be watching. Francis finds that even this mask, he cannot abhor, although it shuts James away as if behind a closed door. This feeling is not much, perhaps--and the thought has not yet entered Francis's mind that he wants to see James again without the composed expression, as he had surprised him--but it makes Francis say, "James."

"Yes?"

"I..." Oh, where to start? "I saw the drawing. In your journal. While you were resting, your bag fell open and..."

A blink. "I know." James looks away. "I woke for a moment and I saw you. I thought it was a dream. Fever, perhaps."

Oh, Francis remembers, as keenly as he remembers all from that moment--the shift on James's bedding, the faintest noise... "I see."

"And then you barely spoke to me in the weeks that came... and I knew-..."

"I didn't know what to say." Francis huffs around a demure smile. "I still don't."

James's eyes dart to the east of them, where Stewart and a Native are coming out of Resolute house. "Nothing needs be said, Francis," James says. His tone is an oddity in such a joyous and brazen man: it is effaced, almost shy.

Francis does not know much in that instant. Nothing certainly that his reason could supply. But he does know he has little time to turn this around. In this too, it was required that he came near losing something to know how dearly he holds to it. The urgency push the sounds past his lips. "I... I do have a request."

James's lips tighten. He expects a rebuke from Francis surely. And from the lines of his face, he silently braces to accept it as nobly as he can manage.

"Would you draw me again?"

James's briefly widened eyes are the sole sign of his surprise. It morphs into hope. "What?" he breathes.

The words and the truth of them gather strength within Francis when he speaks them again. "If you wish, you... you can draw me again. Please."

James only has time for a nod and an incredulous, heady smile before Stewart and his man call out to them.

It is a euphoric thing. It is a cruel thing.

The crux of the matter is that there is nowhere in Fort Resolution where two souls can be alone. Especially not as winter comes around. The fort holds fast; its walls are solid; the men are safe--and by this, Francis means that a little over forty men sleep, eat and live in the same room of twenty by twenty feet. This in addition to the fact that Francis and James command these men make it impossible for them to have a sole moment of privacy. Not only has James not found opportunity to draw a portrait of Francis again, but they have scarcely any second to speak in confidence.

James seems to bear it more sternly than Francis. Perhaps it is because he has hidden his sentiments for a longer time. But this is unfair to James; unfair to the burning warmth of his gaze locking on Francis; unfair to the strength of his grip on Francis's wrist as their hands brush while they lead a hunting party.

Perhaps it is simply that Francis, prevented from talking with James, touching James, feels locked into his own head with his love. He'll go mad with it, he thinks.

When the first signs of spring come, Francis's hope--that he could hold James or even, Lord bless, kiss him should they have the chance--runs through him like the rush of sap in green trees. For two days now, James (stumbling, careful, slow-paced James) has been gone with Anderson and three men, for their first hunting party of the year. They return at dusk on the second day, loaded with caribou.

They have all changed. James is healed, but his skin has taken a coppery tone in the sun. He leans on a walking stick always. How amazing he finds it, he tells his brother officers, that the absence of such small and tiny bones as toes should make it so hard to walk. He is thinner and weaker, and Francis watches him always. Loves him always, invisibly.

At the first occasion he finds upon his return with the hunting party, James pushes something in Francis's hand. A paper, Francis feels, a sheet folded many times. The pressure with which it is shoved into Francis's palm and the glance that follows tells him not to utter a word.

Francis doesn't.

He looks at it in the faint glow of lamplight. It is Francis of course, whom James--God knows how--has found time to draw. It is pencil--where did James find that pencil, Francis will never know--and the paper is a blank page torn from one of their log books. There is nothing to the picture that an unknowing eye would find dubious. Francis stands by the ice-covered shore in their common winter outfit--deerskin and snowshoes. He gazes forth, not quite at the author of the picture. An innocent observer of course would think that the longing in Francis's gaze is the one for home or safety.

Francis lifts a hand to his bearded cheek. He does not wonder whether he appears so transparent in his love. He is certain that he does. It is fortunate then that James should be the only one to whom this love is visible.

He gazes up. James's mattress is not anywhere near Francis's; it is still where it was first placed, in the sickbay area of their little house. Francis looks above the lined bodies of sleeping men. His eyes find James's easily even though the firelight has grown dim.

Tomorrow, Francis will think of how cruel things are; of how he wishes for their return on a ship--he cannot fathom the things he would do for a closed door, a shut cabin, a room.

Tonight, he places the precious etched portrait in his parka. He bows minutely to James, with a hand placed over the picture, on his heart. In the ambient dark, James brings his fingertips to his lips in what could have seemed an innocent brush, and then holds them hand out to Francis from afar--not noticeably so--just barely enough so that Francis can see it.

There's the euphoria.

* * *


	4. autumn 1849, or the insobriety of it all

* * *

Captain James Fitzjames knows it as soon as he lays his foot down from the coach's step onto the pavement--he is drunk. He has not tallied it. There has been brandy with the cigars after dinner with Beaufort and the Barrow sons, and the liquor had been all the more welcome as he had realized, more poignantly with each word, how unsufferable the lot truthfully was; before this there has been wine with dinner, three--no, four glasses, then port; and then, the cherry on top, the, good lord--the handful of gin tumblers he has drunk with George Barrow in the Barrow study.

Scurvy has weakened most everything in his health, but thankfully not how well he can hold his drink. Hence why he has managed no doubt to hide it from the Barrows and their crew, then, dutifully, from himself even as he rode the coach home. Now home towers above him and the solid street sways under his feet with the distinct hiccups of inebriety rather than the profound swells of sea.

Home is not much of a sight surely and the coach driver does not linger long after James pays him his due and then some. The tall brick facade is a typical London sight. The porch is darkened and only distant and faint lights come from inside, signalling that few men within are still awake. Measuring his pace with care, James lets himself in the hall. The rooms are upstairs and the steps are just before him. But he feels he needs to pause before his ascension, and thus he veers into the large dining room to his left. There he finds Thomas and Edward, seated before the fire and a game of chess.

"I thought I would be the only one awake at this hour," he greets them. They are, after all, merely two hours from dawn.

"It was difficult finding sleep," Jopson explains. "We had a resouding news this last evening."

"What news?"

Thomas gives a short bow and a knowing, proud glance at Edward. "Commander Little has had a promotion... and a post."

James thinks he has hidden it well enough until now. It is hard to conceal the effect of the drink with joy and relish flaring high within him. He clasps Edward's shoulder certainly more warmly than he would have if he had not been affected by spirits, and perhaps with the warmest grasp since they had left the ice. "Congratulations, Edward. Now tell me where--south, I hope. Pray tell me it is south."

Edward nods. The blush to his cheeks might be from deserved pride, but perhaps he and Jopson have celebrated on their own. "Yes, south. A sloop. Twelve guns. The Pyranese. An escort to sugar and fruit convoys in the West Indies. And Thomas should not let his humility get the better of him."

James inquires with a quizzical eye.

"First Lieutenant," Jopson says.

"My _Second_ ," Edward emphasizes, an ecstatic smile breaking on his lips.

James lets his hands land on both their shoulders. " _Congratulations_ Thomas."

It must be the drink that brings a tear to his eye. Returning from the Arctic, their men have become more than naval comrades, more than companions in their common adversity: they are closest now to what James has found as a family. But never have these thoughts surfaced in him before--he has not told a soul, not Francis, nor William or Elizabeth.

Before James makes his excuses to return to his own room, Jopson catches his gaze. "Sir--" Thomas no longer shrugs to have his former superiors call him by his Christian name, but this one mark of deference they have not yet uprooted from him "--The kitchen has just opened. Ms Margham should already be up. I'm sure she'll gladly make you a cup of tea. And give you a glass of water."

The ever polite, ever watchful Jopson has naturally noticed James's state in these few minutes of their talk. He nods, wondering what else Jopson's keen eye has perceived.

He leaves both officers to their game. The kitchen is indeed already busy: the fire is stoked and Ms Margham kneads bread at the counter. James downs a glass of water--funny how he has not noticed how parched his throat has become--and a scalding cup of tea. Then he heads for his room upstairs.

He is at the tipping point of insobriety. Objects seem startingly detached from the shadows. The grey light of dawn is ravishing. Even the creaking sound of his steps upon the stairs has beauty. He thinks now of what Francis has told him, once. He had not then grasped the truth of it. "This home isn't unlike a ship, you know?" James had agreed: on the face of it, a house of rooms for naval men had much in common with a ship--to every man their own quarters, with meals taken in a dining room that Dundy had taken to call their mess. Upon their return to England, many of the men had chosen to remain here, like a crew. And those who had not, Francis had pointed out, were not far: John Bridgens's Prints and Books were merely two streets away.

In fact, it occurs to James now that Francis's meaning may have been double. In surviving together, the men of _Erebus_ and _Terror_ have been bonded in friendship and even on firm ground they sought to remain together. As if it was now the only way they lived on. But this home is also like a ship in another respect: behind closed doors were open ears; in corridors, eyes may be watching. There were no secrets on ships, no privacy for the common seaman, and little for the officers. Nor are there here.

Someone, for instance, may well be listening as James turns the key in the lock and stumbles in his room. Tom Hartnell, in the room left, or--God forbid--Thomas Blanky, in the room across, should they be awake (and sailors always ever sleep with only one eye shut), can well hear him remove his greatcoat. A drunk man, after all, is not a subtle one. James makes sure to make an audible show of peeling off his uniform coat, casting the epaulets on a table. Then he makes his steps heavy to the bed, where he slumps down heavily enough to have the mattress squeak loudly.

For a bit, he fumbles with the coverlet and sheets, as if he were drunk enough to have trouble tucking himself in.

Then he stills and lets a few breaths pass. He listens intently, and when all he can hear are the sounds of the wakening city and the rare birds beyond the window, he rises again. He does not put his boots back on. Walking barefooted, he follows a path he has perfected over the last few months, placing his feet on the boards of wood he knows will not creak the loudest.

He closes and locks his room's door slowly, and with surreptitious silence. Then begins the more treacherous excursion down the corridor. The peril of his position increases as he progresses: the farther he gets from his room, the harder it becomes to justify why he would undertake such an unlikely journey, at dawn, visibly tired, his hair astray, his eyes sunken, in his undershirt and drawers--and shoeless. Once, he has been thus surprised by young Mr Peglar, before he took up rooms above Mr Bridgens's commerce: feigning sleepiness, James had pretended he was going down the stairs to the kitchen to take a warm glass of milk to bed. For some reason beyond James's understanding, the story had succeeded in its aim. Peglar had nodded--and, most bewilderingly, he had not pointed out that James's room was closer to the south stairwell which connected more directly with the kitchen than did the north stairwell for which James's lie had him heading.

But the toughest part is yet to come. It occurs when James must come standstill in front of the door to Francis's room and use the spare copy of Francis's key he had had made in Hertfordshire, in the utmost secrecy, weeks after their arrival.

James, though, has become quite skilled at it, he must say. In a few, quick, practiced motions he slips the key from his waistcoat, inserts it in the lock, twists it at the careful speed he knows will not cause the metal to grind and pushes the door open just as the bolt is freed. He closes it behind himself swiftly and hushedly, then pauses, listening for suspicious sounds.

He was quite ecstatic about this routine of clandestinity when he and Francis had just devised it, months prior. It has since become a bit tiring. But both Francis and he wait for new naval postings: they cannot leave London and neither of them has the heart to abandon their men so soon and seek other rooms where some privacy at least would be ensured.

Which is why he is all the more eager to tell Francis of the offer Beaufort has made him just tonight--or rather, he corrects himself, this past evening.

When there is only silence in the hall outside, he moves in the room. Even in the dimness of dawn it is no challenge: he knows his way around. He leaves his waistcoat on the chair by the stove and sits on the edge of the bed, where Francis sleeps, his back to the lingering embers, to pull off his drawers.

Francis's whispered voice is surprisingly clear for a man who should have been asleep. "How was it? Is it very late?"

"It was... interesting. And I assure you it is quite early," James answers in similar tones.

Francis opens an eye. Even through the tiny slit his eyelid reveals, the ashen light of dawn must be unmistakable if Francis's disbelieving eyebrow is any indication.

"In my defense," James says, "you did not inquire on the day."

"Irredeemable swan."

"Chary goose."

Francis has opened both eyes now and cleared his throat, firmly set in the process of awakening, while James is settling down on the mattress, and growing aware of how leaden the liquor has made his limbs feel. Francis's gaze surveils him tenderly. It must be the drink coursing through James still that causes him to blush under Francis's attention--or is it? Their hidden love is acutely precious. The discovery of each other a poignant gift. James feels the earliest beginning of Francis's beard on his chin when Francis kisses him. James kisses back, clumsily, suddenly enthusiastic, he thinks, his drunken alacrity showing.

But it is not his misaligned motions that give him away--Francis inhales with a curious frown and says: "How much have you--"

"I overdid it," James says quickly, as if a rapid admission would erase the sin. "I didn't realize. I'm s--"

Francis stops the apology on James's lips with a forgiving blink. "In my opinion, reasons abound to despise gin. But the first of them is certainly that, whenever one overdoes it, one comes to smelling like a pine tree."

James lets his head fall back on the pillow. "A pine tree?" he says, his mock indignation falling flat due to the low volume of his voice.

Francis nods with the utmost seriousness as he gets up. He returns with a glass of water. He stays by the bed while James drinks it obediently, then pours another. "Water," he prescribes. "And sleep. I speak from experience."

The safety and comfort of finding himself home again--the ever-renewed wonder that there should be such a thing as home--the sight, habitual, of Francis getting up, wrapping a robe over his underthings--all this lulls James to sleep more efficiently than all he has drunk. It seems to him, though, that he should at least tell Francis the good news, before he loses consciousness entirely.

"I spoke with Beaufort at the Barrows'," he mumbles.

"Sir Francis? What about him?"

"He has talked to me of a position. Assistant cartographer. Here in London."

Francis's face goes still for a second. James would later think that he should have made notice of it had he not been in his current state. Then Francis looks down at the papers on the desk before him--letters, correspondence--a quick glance--again, something which would have drawn James's attention, if...

"Good. Very good," Francis says. "Sleep now."

James wakes at what must be midday. He startles from Francis's bed not quite knowing what roused him. Then it comes again: a knock on the door. Francis, dressed now, is already on his way to answer it. "Francis!" Thomas Blanky's voice calls out.

Francis cracks the door open cautiously. "What is it, Thomas?"

"Letters for you, from downstairs." James hears the passage of paper from hands to hands even if the door hides Thomas from his view--and, most crucially, himself from Thomas's sight. "Our young Captain must've had quite the night. His room's locked and he won't even utter a word If he returned at all and didn't find himself some fair--"

"I'm certain his night was long enough as it was. Don't disturb him, Thomas," Francis admonishes gently. "And communicate this to the men as well."

Thomas responds with a cackling laugh as Francis shuts the door, locking it behind him. James has managed to sit in bed in the meantime. Of the few things on which he and Francis disagree, Thomas Blanky must be one of the most divisive. Not the man himself, of course--they both cherish him in their ways, Francis even more deeply so than James. No. It is on the extant of Thomas's knowledge of the particular bonds he and Francis share that their positions vary. James's mind is that Thomas knows everything of their association--because nothing would escape as able an eye as his, and one who has known Francis for so long. But Francis maintains that Thomas has been humbugged by their dissimulation manoeuvers and general discretion. It is possible naturally that the truth is effectually some kind of compromise--that Thomas knows fully of what--and who--was to be found behind Francis's door this morning, but that he would never do his friends the disgrace of revealing his knowledge to any other soul.

James's thoughts shift back to the present circumstances. A look at the sun coming in from the window confirms it is early afternoon. This means he in fact finds himself--alas, what a tragedy--trapped in Francis's room until dinner is called and he can then return to his own room while the men will have headed downstairs. It does mean he cannot change his clothes, which feel as if they are trying their very best to adhere to his clammy skin. But otherwise, his state has much improved from the one of the past night.

Except that one thing in the room calls for his attention--there is now a deep frown sitting on Francis's brow.

As in all matters, a direct approach is to be commanded. "What bothers you, Francis?"

Francis shrugs as he sets the still-sealed letters on his desk. The pile of his mostly-unopened correspondence now appears more like a small hill. "Nothing."

So much for directness.

James is suddenly reminded of the way Francis has stiffened when James has told him of Beaufort's offer, prior to falling asleep. "Has it to do with yesterday's offer from Sir Francis? Of my joining him at the Hydrography service at the Admiralty?"

Francis does not volunteer any answer, but his shoulders take on a distinct slump. "No," is the half-lie coming out of his mouth.

"Then what?"

"The Admiralty is in London."

"Yes. It very much is. What--"

"Banbridge. I received news from my sisters. My brother George is ill. They need me to take charge of the estate. I must leave presently."

James stills.

"I have just now heard," Francis adds, pointing at the hill of letters.

"When will you depart?"

"In a fortnight."

Francis has joined James at the bedside. They sit together, sides brushing, facing the stove opposite. In the few seconds of silence that follow, James curses himself time and again in his mind. He would have noticed, surely, that Francis was preoccupied with some conundrum, had he not been so inebrieted. Would certainly not have proudly signaled his own triumphs. Or, more precisely, what he had then thought of as his own triumphs. It seems now like an impossible curse. He knows not much of what an Assistant Hydrographer does, yet he is certain that it involves mostly London and Admirals and balls and expeditions and very possibly all of those things in haphazard succession.

"Francis..." he starts.

But he is not sure of what he should say.

Francis cups his jaw. "Don't fret over it. You and I have been through much worse, haven't we?"

He takes Francis's hand and clasps the fingers slightly more hardly than he normally would. Yes, he prepares to say, and in all those terrible things we were together. As companions as we are now, or as friends--and even as rivals. Throughout their voyage home, their return in London--while they were still confined to brushing fingers in coaches and sharing kisses in the darkest streets of London--never had the idea of living separate lives occured to them.

But Francis precedes him. "Do not fret," he emphasizes. "And move over. I was awakened too early this morning by a shameless intruder and have grown weary over the morning from lack of rest."

Habitually, James would jest about Francis's age and Francis would strongarm him down onto the mattress, muttering things about James's pliable youthfulness.

None of this chiding finds its way past James's lips now.

He leaves his place to Francis. When he peeks towards the bed after having washed at the basin, he finds Francis asleep. Francis's face is indeed weary, its lines running deeper than usual and James wonders how long he had waited for James's return this last evening. How long he sat alone with nothing but this unfortunate news and the dwindling fire for company.

Silently, James damns himself again.

Francis was right: water and sleep have served him well. His stomach feels unsettled, but he knows not if it is the news or the gin that sits there most heavily. He seats himself at Francis's desk, thinking to write to Sir Francis Beaufort.

Amidst Francis's letters before him, the wrinkled corner of a leaf catches his gaze. Pulling the leaf out of the fray, he finds himself staring at his sketch of Francis--the very first one--that Sir John had blatantly exposed while James and Francis were still awfully distant with each other. In the year since their arrival at Fort Resolution, he had had more frequent occasions to draw. And he had sketched Francis's figure often. But it should not surprise him perhaps that Francis has become fond of this one sketch. There was some love to the lines drawn there even then, James realizes now.

He looks up at Francis's sleeping form. These shoulders that seem to bear the weight of the earth, this jaw that James cannot think of without having tender things in mind, of both a speakable and less speakable sort, the nape of this neck where Francis's hair gather in a strand of mixed grey and ginger.

He dips the pen in the inkwell, takes a fresh sheet and begins to draw.

Francis wakes in such darkness he is utterly convinced they must have come close now to miss dinner. The sky outside the window is pitch dark and a fire warms the stove. His eyes adjust and he finds James, finally, at his desk, a lamp by his side, still in his underthings, pen in hand and bent over his work.

"Writing a letter, are you?"

"To Sir Francis Beaufort, yes."

Sir Francis. Assistant hydrographer. Banbridge. Mary's letter about George. Lord. _Hell_.

Francis runs a hand over his face, trying his best to rub the sleep off. "What for?" he says, sitting up.

"To thank him for his generous offer which I must decline."

Francis sighs.

They both knew their new postings might find them on opposite sides of the globe. And so both had campaigned rather ferociously that they would either go with Francis as Commander and James as Second or the reverse, but that no other options were tolerable to them. Such were the bonds forged at sea that no naval man had taken offense or note of the intensity of the friendship between them.

But they had not expected this--and not so soon.

"James, you're not obliged to--"

"I shall join you."

"What?"

"I shall go with you to Banbridge."

Francis blinks. The lamp casts most of its light on the desk, leaving James's features in the dark. Yet Francis can see that James is dreadfully serious. "Banbridge? You'll detest it."

"How so?"

Francis huffs. Of the two ideas most improbably joined in his mind are the ones of his father's impossibly calm townhouse in the equally sedate Banbridge, and of James's likings and habits in the vivid city life of London. James had not yet recovered his former health, and at this point it was obvious that he never would; thusly, the operas and theatres saw less of him than in his younger days, but... "Banbridge is the greatest bore even I can conceive. There are little distractions. The salons you'll find out of touch with all Londonian gossip. No opera, no ball, no reception. Even the sea is far-away."

James gives an elegant shrug. His brow is set in a way that has become alarming to Francis. James has given this more thought than it first seemed to him upon waking. "So we shall tend to the house, ride through fields, put your father's affairs in order. Herd sheep, if that's what one does in Banbridge. Read and study by the fire. Breed pigeons. _Francis_." Francis gets up from bed and joins James whose eyes shine with desperate ardor. "And worry not as to gossip. Wherever on this earth where society is present, tattle and scandal follow. I trust even the Netsiliks have it." Francis brushes back a lock of James's hair. James catches his hand. "I will remain with you wherever you go. Do you see this clearly?"

"Yes, I see it," Francis answers softly. He shuts his eyes. The weight and shadow on his shoulders seem to dissolve, as if blown away by warm wind. A lithe joy takes their place, surprising him anew. He opens his eyes again and it is as if he were seeing James for the very first time. The loving eagerness of his gaze on Francis, the mischievous glint about the whole of him, his solid, instant resolve.

And so it is merely the first time of many. Of infinitely many.

They draw close as if driven by natural law. James deepens Francis's kiss, then place trails of kisses alongside his neck, while Francis leans into the softness of James's hair at his cheek.

He is eventually distracted by something he glimpses at his desk, before James.

"Wh--"

"Ah," is all James says while a different kind of blush comes to his cheeks.

From underneath James's letter to Beaufort, Francis pulls another sheet, with the ink on it freshly dry. It features Francis, asleep, with the linens twined about his body, more delicately so than Francis suspects they in fact were. His face is void of all the weariness Francis knows must have been there. In fact, he appears like the most serene creature in the entire world. There is not a shade of doubt to him as he sleeps, nor a sliver of apprehension--so much that it is hard not to feel the peaceful delight that inhabitated the drawing hand. His limbs--a leg and arm, a shoulder, an elbow--are also much finer and graceful than Francis imagines them to be.

"An entirely accurate depiction," James objects. Francis has not uttered a word, but his incredulous grin must have spoken volumes.

At just the moment when Francis offers that they should return to bed while there is still time left before dinner, a knock comes at Francis's door.

It is Thomas Jopson, relaying Ms Margham's message that dinner will be served in twenty minutes time, "if the naval gentlemen want to please come down".

Jopson pauses. "Shall I wake Captain Fitzjames, sir?"

"No, let him be, Thomas. Thank you."

And their ritual of secrecy starts again thusly. Francis dresses for dinner under James's watchful gaze, and James waits by the door, listening until the steps cease in the hall and stairs so that he may discreetly return to his own room, change and appear. Francis knows that Banbridge will be awful. Not only on James, but on himself--and perhaps James will take to it more easily than himself. Francis's years of naval life have made his family seem more like an island at the far edge of his mind, than like what home should feel like. Yet, perhaps in Banbridge, they can have the privacy at least that may allow them not to sneak in deserted halls, or creep up stairs. And to Francis now that is all the gold in the world.  


* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and they lived happily ever after in banbridge breeding fancy pigeons and walking on green hills in the golden irish sunset the end
> 
> on [tumblr](https://davantagedenuit.tumblr.com/) and yours as ever and as ever with love


End file.
